Total pages in book: 41
Estimated words: 37645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 188(@200wpm)___ 151(@250wpm)___ 125(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 37645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 188(@200wpm)___ 151(@250wpm)___ 125(@300wpm)
I last exactly five minutes before I start watching her on the monitors. It’s a fucking compulsion now, the urge to look. There’s a loop of her on camera three, brushing a stray curl out of her eyes as she jokes with the female bartender. I rewind it twice, then catch myself and slam the playback window shut, feeling like a dumbfuck. I don’t even recognize myself.
The day shift supervisor, Cara, gives me a sideways glance as I flub the door code. “Rough night?” she says, voice dry as dust.
“New system. Still getting used to it,” I grunt, hating the heat turning my ears red.
Cara doesn’t buy it, but she shrugs and goes back to her report. She’s the only person in the building not drooling over Naomi, probably because she’s married to the job and maybe also because she thinks men are a lost cause.
At least once a shift, Naomi and I pass each other somewhere in the club. It’s never planned, always accidental, but my body knows the drill. Every time she’s near, I get a little jolt of adrenaline followed quickly by the sense that I need to make a fucking move. She never says more than a word or two, but the eye contact is electric. Tonight, as I round the corner near the break room, she’s there, balancing a tray of empty glasses.
“Hey, boss,” she says, her smoky voice rolling out like a challenge.
“Hey yourself, Fever.” I say, managing not to sound like a stalker.
“Fever?” She asks with a raised eyebrow.
I’m not ready to explain that she’s taken over my body and soul like a fever I’ll never get over so I tell her. “I’ll explain later.” I hope my wink comes off flirty and not creepy.
We’re close enough to touch, and for a second neither of us moves. The tray tilts, just a hair, and I steady it with one hand. Her warm and soft fingers brush lightly against mine and that fucking jolt hits me right between the eyes. She lets me hold the weight for a second longer than is strictly necessary, then grins and pulls away. “Thanks,” she says. “Would’ve been embarrassing if I dropped those.”
“Don’t mention it,” I reply, and almost add something dumb like you could drop them all night and I wouldn’t give a shit. Instead, I watch her go, memorizing the back of her neck, the curl of her jaw as she glances over her shoulder.
The dreams of her started the first night we met and they haven’t let up since then.
My very first dream involved Naomi’s top sliding off one shoulder as she leans in close and whispers, “Come find me.” Unfortunately, I fucking woke up before I was able to make a move.
Somewhere around day three, the dreams escalated. In the newest fantasy, I find her standing at the bar, alone, the place deserted except for us. The world around us goes dark as she pours a shot of bourbon, neat, and slides it down the counter with perfect aim. I catch it, sip, and feel the burn all the way to my toes. She says nothing, just watches me, blue eyes unblinking. Then she’s on her knees, tugging my belt open with practiced hands, mouth already wet and waiting.
I know I’m dreaming, but I can smell the vanilla on her skin, feel the press of her tongue against my cock. She takes me in deep, all the way, without gagging and eager. Her hands are on my thighs, nails digging in, and when I look down, she’s staring up at me with her electric eyes holding mine captive. I want to tell her how good it is, but I can’t talk. All I can do is fist her hair and hold on as she works me with slow, relentless pressure, sucking and swallowing until my vision tunnels and I explode in her mouth.
I wake up with my sheets twisted around my legs, breathing like I just finished a foot chase. I’m hard, painfully so, and it takes a good five minutes of frigid water assaulting my body for me to get back to neutral. The next morning is even worse; I can barely look at her on the monitors without thinking about her pouty lips and talented tongue or the way her lips curl into a smirk like she’s tasted every secret I have.
I know I need to plan my move carefully, but the club has its own gravity and I’m always drawn to her. I find her at the bar after her shift, counting tips and scribbling in a notebook. I lean against the bar, rehearsing something casual, but when she glances up, my brain blue-screens.
“Hey, Wyatt,” she smiles at me as I stand there with my thumb up my ass.
She always says my name in a way that turns me inside out.